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Alas! what more could fate itself impose,
But thee, the last and greatest of my woes
No more my robes in waving purple flow,
Nor on my hand the sparkling di'monds glow;
No more my locks in ringlets curl'd diffuse
The costly sweetness of Arabian dews,
Nor braids of gold the varied tresses bind,

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That fly disordered with the wanton wind:

For whom should Sappho use such arts as these?
He's gone, whom only she desir'd to please!

Cupid's light darts my tender bosom move,
Still is there cause for Sappho still to love:
So from my birth the Sisters fix'd my doom,
And gave to Venus all my life to come;
Or, while my Muse in melting notes complains,
My yielding heart keeps measure to my strains.
By charms like thine which all my soul have won,
Who might not-ah! who would not be undone?
For those Aurora Cephalus might scorn,

And with fresh blushes paint the conscious morn.
For those might Cynthia lengthen Phaon's sleep,
And bid Endymion nightly tend his sheep.
Venus for those had rapt thee to the skies,
But Mars on thee might look with Venus' eyes.
O scarce a youth, yet scarce a tender boy!

O useful time for lovers to employ !

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Pride of thy age, and glory of thy race,

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Come to these arms, and melt in this embrace!

The

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The vows you never will return, receive;
And take at least the love you will not give.
See, while I write, my words are lost in tears!
The less my sense, the more my love appears.
Sure 'twas not much to bid one kind adieu,
(At least to feign was never hard to you;)
Farewell, my Lesbian love, you might have said;
Or coldly thus, Farewell, O Lesbian maid!
No tear did you, no parting kiss receive,
Nor knew I then how much I was to grieve.
No lover's gift your Sappho could confer,
And wrongs and woes were all you left with her.
No charge I gave you, and no charge could give,
But this, Be mindful of our loves, and live.
Now, by the Nine, those pow'rs ador'd by me,
And Love, the God that ever waits on thee,
When first I heard (from whom I hardly knew)
That you were fled, and all my joys with you,
Like some sad statue, speechless, pale I stood, 125
Grief chill'd my breast, and stopp'd my freezing blood;
No sigh to rise, no tear had pow'r to flow,
Fix'd in a stupid lethargy of woe:

But when its way th' impetuous passion found,
I rend my tresses, and my breast I wound;

I rave, then weep; I curse, and then complain;
Now swell to rage, now melt in tears again.
Not fiercer pangs distract the mournful dame,
Whose first-born infant feeds the fun'ral flame.

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My scornful brother with a smile appears,
Insults my woes, and triumphs in my tears,
His hated image ever haunts my eyes,

And why this grief? thy daughter lives, he cries.
Stung with my love, and furious with despair,
All torn my garments, and my bosom bare,
My woes, thy crimes, I to the world proclaim;
Such inconsistent things are love and shame!
'Tis thou art all my care and my delight,
My daily longing, and my dream by night:

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Oh night more pleasing than the brightest day, 145 When fancy gives what absence takes away,

And, dress'd in all its visionary charms,

Restores my

Then round

fair deserter to my arms!

your neck in wanton wreath I twine,
Then you, methinks, as fondly circle mine:
A thousand tender words I hear and speak;
A thousand melting kisses give, and take:
Then fiercer joys, I blush to mention these,
Yet, while I blush, confess how much they please.

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But when, with day, the sweet delusions fly,

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And all things wake to life and joy, but I,
As if once more forsaken, I complain,

And close my eyes to dream of

you again

Then frantic rise, and like some fury rove

Through lonely plains, and through the silent grove, As if the silent grove and lonely plains,

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I view

That knew my pleasures, could relieve my pains.

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I view the grotto, once the scene of love,
The rocks around, the hanging roofs above,

That charm'd me more, with native moss o'ergrown,
Than Phrygian marble, or the Parian stone,

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I find the shades that veil'd our joys before;
But, Phaon gone, those shades delight no more.
Here the press'd herbs with bending tops betray
Where oft entwin'd in am'rous folds we lay;
I kiss that earth which once was press'd by you,

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And all with tears the withering herbs bedew.
For thee the fading trees appear to mourn,
And birds defer their songs till thy return:

Night shades the groves, and all in silence lie,

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All but the mournful Philomel and I:

With mournful Philomel I join my strain,

Of Tereus she, of Phaon I complain.

A spring there is, whose silver waters show,
Clear as a glass, the shining sands below:
A flow'ry Lotos spreads its arms above,
Shades all the banks, and seems itself a grove;
Eternal greens the mossy margin grace,
Watch'd by the sylvan genius of the place:

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Here as I lay, and swelled with tears the flood, 185 Before my sight a watʼry Virgin stood:

She stood and cry'd, "O you that love in vain! "Fly hence, and seek the fair Leucadian main ; "There stands a rock, from whose impending steep "Apollo's fane surveys the rolling deep;

190 "There

My scornful brother with a smile

appears,

Insults my woes, and triumphs in my tears,
His hated image ever haunts my eyes,

And why this grief? thy daughter lives, he cries.
Stung with my love, and furious with despair,
All torn my garments, and my bosom bare,
My woes, thy crimes, I to the world proclaim;
Such inconsistent things are love and shame!
'Tis thou art all my care and my delight,
My daily longing, and my dream by night:

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Oh night more pleasing than the brightest day, 145
When fancy gives what absence takes away,
And, dress'd in all its visionary charms,

Restores my fair deserter to my arms!

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